


Can't Find My Way Home

by Questeer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Hydra (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questeer/pseuds/Questeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Rogers has gone off-grid, he’s a fugitive of SHIELD.”</p><p>Clint’s brain froze for a moment, a brief flash of shock written on his face before it was erased and a frown set in.</p><p>“I’m sorry, did you just say that Captain America, Mr. Star Spangled himself, is a fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D?”</p><p>“Agent Barton, I repeat that Rogers is a fugitive. Do you accept the mission, or should I send word to Pierce that you’re refusing?”</p><p>Pulling the phone away from his ear, Clint hit his head softly against the wall. The wheels in his head were spinning, a whispered “shit” coming out every time he bumped his forehead. This is not how he wanted to start his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back Down the Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Hello! This work has been in the works for a long time, and I'm very excited to see it finally arriving on the internet! This is inspired from the original plan to have Hawkeye in Winter Soldier, which never took root. This may or may not have spiraled out of control. Originally supposed to be a small story, I now have an entire series planned out! I hope you decide to stick around as more and more is added to this cherished trainwreck of mine. 
> 
> Also to note, my version of Hawkeye in this story is supposed to be a mix of elements from both the comics and the movies.
> 
> Enjoy!

Clint Barton was a man who really appreciated his sleep. In his line of work, it was a rare and treasured thing. Can’t sleep when you’re too busy trying to avoid getting shot or blown up all the time. It got a bit easier sleeping when Natasha came--at least after the first dozen times she had tried to kill the archer in his sleep. 

Sometimes Clint missed the nights where he could sleep soundly, when he didn’t have to worry about somebody sneaking up on him and ending him right then and there. But, beggars can’t be choosers. So Barton revelled in whatever time he could get in that allowed him to sleep for as long as possible.

It was only a few hours after his return from the other side of the world that Clint was woken up by the shrill ringtone his house phone (a rare find in these times) played. While his face remained buried in his pillow, Clint’s hand maneuvered around the nightstand by his bed and clumsily grabbed the phone. His tired eyes squinted at the Caller ID that flashed on the small screen, and huffing a breath he answered the call.

“This is Barton,” Clint answered groggily, glancing over at the digital clock on the wooden nightstand, frowning that it read 2:35. He hadn’t even really hit jet-lag yet from his trip. “You guys know it’s my day off, right?”

“Sorry agent, but we can’t have you on the bench for this one. We have an emergency here in D.C.”

“What’s going on?” Clint shot up from his bed, glancing out at the view of the city from his apartment. He was expecting to see great columns of smoke and fire, rather than the more than cheery midday that greeted him from the outside. A tossed glance was made once more before heading to the kitchen to make some quick coffee.

“Rogers has gone off-grid, he’s a fugitive of SHIELD.”

Clint’s brain froze for a moment, a brief flash of shock written on his face before it was erased and a frown set in.

“I’m sorry, did you just say that Captain America, Mr. Star Spangled himself, is a fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“Agent Barton, I repeat that Rogers is a fugitive. Do you accept the mission, or should I send word to Pierce that you’re refusing?”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Clint hit his head softly against the wall. The wheels in his head were spinning, a whispered “shit” coming out every time he bumped his forehead. This is not how he wanted to start his day.

“Uh,” the voice at the end of the phone lost its familiar government tone for a moment, “are you, uh, okay, Agent Barton?”  
Blowing out a hot breath, Barton leaned against the wall as he returned the phone to his ear.

“I’m fantastic, do you have a location on Rogers?”

The bowman held the phone with white knuckles as he made his way over to the kitchen.

“Information will be provided at the Triskelion. Meeting in 30, Rumlow’s team’ll be expecting you.”

The frown that had already made a presence on Clint’s face grew heavier, “Triskelion in 30, got it.”

With the call ending, Clint stared at the coffee pot in irritation (something he never thought he’d do).

“Stupid Rogers,” he muttered as he turned the machine on.

“Damn job,” Clint grumbled as he filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine from the top, and shoved the now empty, stained coffee pot back on top of the hot plate.

“That dumbass ruining my day off,” he finished as he poured the coffee grounds into the filter and slammed the top of the machine down, watching as it began to do its job. Brooding, Clint watched the coffee pot in silent irritation. His elbows pressed against the cool surface of the counter while he waited, one hand holding up his face. Occasionally glancing at the clock that glowed on his stove, Clint tapped his fingers until the timer finally shouted that the coffee was finished.

Quickly, Barton pulled out the coffee pot with his standby oven mitt. He multitasked, going back between bites of a protein bar while changing out of his plaid pajama pants, taking sips of coffee while tying up his boots. As Clint brushed his teeth he considered calling Natasha, but the clock in his house chimed at the strike of three, pushing him to speed up. Instead, he finished getting ready and snatched up his cell phone off of the counter before racing out of the apartment. The archer hurried through the hallway, going down the stairs and pausing only as he was hit by the brightness of the sky. But Clint was soon off, making his way to the impressive building that held many of S.H.I.E.L.D’s finest.

====>

It was exactly 3:04 as Barton rushed into the building, passing through security before he was met with the leader of Strike himself. Brock Rumlow walked with more weight on his right foot, though it was barely noticeable. His eye was bruised, the skin already tinted darker, uglier. Despite this, Rumlow still walked with a near swaggering confidence that his injuries were unable to remove.

“Rumlow,” Clint greeted, his hand twitching ever-so-slightly by his side before he offered it.

“Barton,” Brock returned, accepting the handshake firmly. The two did so for a moment, both of their grasps tight and hard. The challenging friendship born from an intense rivalry created from the first time they had met during a test flight with a prototype-Quinjet. They were both younger, dumber, and they wouldn’t be able to fly for weeks after their conjoined mayhem. 

“Right this way,” Rumlow said with a grin after the two dropped the competition, secrecy tight in the pull of his lips.

A curt nod from Clint sent Rumlow to lead the way, Clint trailing slightly behind while glancing around the building. He gave off an air of casual bystander, his hands resting in his pockets and a looseness in his steps. What immediately caught his attention was the part of the glass ceiling that was shattered, the area blocked off while an old custodian swept up the debris.

“What happened there?” He asked, pointing at the crash site.

“Rogers happened,” Rumlow replied, and Clint frowned slightly as he took in the whole of the scene. The two were heading towards the elevator before Rumlow changed direction and went for the stairs. Clint glanced at the elevator doors, seeing a “Out of Order” sign taped to it. Putting pieces together Clint looked between the shattered ceiling and the elevator that remained suspended about halfway up one of the Triskelion’s towers.

Barton whistled, “Rogers, huh?”

Remaining silent to the remark, Rumlow began to go up the stairs, and the two were quiet as they ascended the lengthy climb. 28 floors later and both refusing to admit to one another that they were both out of breath, Rumlow took a left and reached the meeting room. He opened the door and barely held it open for Clint to enter before the archer heard the swift click of it closing.

The room was dark, save for the glow of monitors laiden with information and screenshots of Cap. The rest of the Strike team rose from their chairs as their leader and Agent Barton entered, a familiar tenseness in their bodies as they stood at the ready. One that was set apart was the man who sat at the end of the table, his face framed by large glasses and dressed in a decent suit.

“Jasper,” Clint acknowledged, his eyes only looking at the other agent a moment before they were back to going through all of the monitors.

“Barton.” Agent Sitwell returned, his eyes not leaving the archer as he waited for the question that hung on Clint’s tongue.

“Wanna fill me in on what’s going on?”

Sitwell nodded, his head bobbing for a moment before he returned his focus to the monitors. “Last night around 0100 Fury was with Rogers in the Captain’s apartment, we don’t know the details or the reason for the visit. It was at Rogers’ apartment where the director was attacked by an unknown assailant. Fury took hits, a nearby agent arrived on scene while Rogers gave chase after the shooter. Director Fury was taken to the hospital,” Sitwell paused, Clint tense as he narrowed his eyes in wait.

“I’m afraid Director Fury didn’t make it.”

Silence snaked its way around the room and circled around Clint Barton, coiling tighter around the archer as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Clearing his throat, Clint brought his head down and found interest in the table that became the drum to his fingers. The urge for anything to get rid of the burning in his heart was desperate, but all his mind could do was chant softly to him, “He didn’t make it.” But Clint couldn’t distinguish whose voice it was, it merged between Jasper’s and Natasha’s. It almost felt like he was back on that damn helicarrier, damaged to hell thanks to no one but himself. A friend, teacher, leader, gone, thanks to him. The past -.

“Did they catch the shooter?” He asked with a quiet voice, soft like the glow of a candle in the night.

“No, he managed to get away.” Jasper glanced to Rumlow, who only shifted his head up slightly in agreement before the Strike leader looked back towards his competitor with a thoughtful mind.

Clint, with a release of a hot breath and the smallest tapping of his foot, returned his focus back to Jasper and threw on the spy’s persona. No more emotion needed to be shown in front of everyone. Mourning could be done thoroughly later on.

“What about Rogers then? Why are we going after him?” 

“Rogers was at the hospital when Director Fury was in surgery. Pierce asked for him to come in so Rogers could shed some more light on the situation. Yet, Rogers withheld information. Pierce gave the order to put him under custody. This led to an attempt to capture Rogers with the Strike team,” a video feed from the elevator that was now out of order appeared on screen. 

It was pretty intense as the fight progressed, but Rogers held his own. Clint had to glance back and look at Rumlow after watching Rogers throw him into the ceiling. His lip tugged up ever so slightly as he saw and identified all of Rumlow’s new injuries, and the same for the rest of his gathered crew. 

Keep it professional, Clint reminded himself before turning his attention back to the video. Cap’s movements were strong with survival, barely hesitating before he launched himself out of the elevator. It was about as stressful to watch as seeing the guy jump out of a plane without a parachute.

“As you can see,” Sitwell spoke up as he paused the video, “Rogers managed to evade capture. Currently we’re trying to find a location on them. They were sighted at a mall earlier, but we couldn’t locate them.”

A witty remark was about to fly from Clint’s tongue but he held back as he listened to Sitwell. “Them?” He asked as his drumming fingers froze.

Jasper paused, looking to Rumlow for any form of support. But Brock watched his target with a slight smile. Sitwell’s mess was his own to deal with, and Rumlow waited expectantly.

“It’s come to our attention that Agent Romanoff is aiding Captain Rogers.”

“It’s come to your attention?” Barton repeated, flames poking at his insides. His voice rose slightly as he stared down Sitwell, the rest of his face revealing minute signs of irritation. “Fury’s dead, Captain America’s a fugitive, and Agent Romanoff is aiding him? Worst part is you guys think you can capture the two of them, while they’re working together,” the archer shook his head, “they’re survivors, Jasper, it’s no surprise that you all have already taken a beating from trying.” Clint finished with a glance from Rumlow to the rest of his men. 

In the silence of the aftermath, Clint felt everyone’s eyes on him; but what bothered him was the way they all were holding themselves. He had been foolish to dismiss the tenseness that they all held as just the familiar stance of military men. A couple of them who stood on the left side of the table kept their hands rested beside their legs, where mindful taser rods sat warily in their holding.Their gazes more pointed, more focused than one should be in a simple meeting. 

All of them ready to attack in a moment’s notice, the realization smacked Clint, but his face remained impassive as he continued to stare down at his hands. Rumlow’s gaze could be felt against Clint’s back, the archer turning hyper-aware. Looking at the balled up fists, he unravelled his fingers and began to tap on the wooden surface again.

“These ‘guys’ you speak of, Agent Barton, are on your side. And we’re asking for you to help us apprehend two very dangerous fugitives.” Jasper replied with a strong voice, his eyes daring while he watched Clint.

“You know them Barton. You’ll give us the edge we need.” Rumlow added.

“I will?” Clint replied, a slight challenge in his voice. He needed to test the waters, keeping track of the others as he turned to face Brock.

“Yeah, you will,” Rumlow answered, stepping closer to Barton as his crossed arms dropped, “because it’s your job, and you can’t say no to the right side. Everybody has their orders, Barton. Now listen to yours.”

For a moment Clint stared back at Rumlow, the two quiet before the archer spun back around to look at Sitwell. “This is a direct order from Pierce?” 

“Highest authority,” Sitwell replied.

Quiet once more, Barton shuffled his eyes between the table and the rest of the Strike team. He could feel the way his silence made them anxious. It was a moment of control, but it felt more like Barton was back at the circus, watching the performers pause on the tightrope. His control was about as strong as the performers ability to fight gravity while they fell. 

At least they have a net, Clint thought before clearing his throat. All of the eyes reminded him of why Tony Stark, and not himself, handled press conferences.

With a sour look on his face and frustration clearly evident in his eyes, Barton met Sitwell’s wary gaze and nodded in submission. “What’s the plan, then?”

Rumlow spoke up from behind Clint, “Finding a location on them is gonna be the key part, but once we find them it’ll only be a small matter of getting a team together and going in.”

“And are we there to bring them in or cross ‘em off?” Barton looked at Rumlow, hands shoved into his pockets. His fingers wrapped around a gift that Natasha had given to him before she had taken off on a solo op in Latvia. The temptation to stab it right into Rumlow’s dumb face was strong.

“Eliminating the targets isn’t in the plan, but we’ll do what we have to if it comes to it, Barton.”

“What were they doing at the mall?” Clint asked after a breath of silence.

“We’re not quite sure,” Sitwell answered, looking at Rumlow.

“Well, how’d you find out they were at the mall, Sitwell?” Clint nearly snapped, looking at the agent with a raised eyebrow. 

“We managed to find them through the traffic cameras we had our people monitoring,” he responded with a slightly raised voice. The bowman turned silent, and Jasper continued. “I’d keep yourself in check, Barton,” he warned, “I recognize the personal connections you have to this operation but you need to focus on the mission.”

“I apologize, Jasper, honestly,” Clint replied evenly, throwing his hand out as if to offer the apology like a tossed bone. “But, my personal connections to this op are why I’m here, and I’m just trying to figure out why they would stop by the mall. We all know that’s not exactly someplace you’d stop by while running around as fugitives,” he finished after gesturing to the rest of the Strike team.

“I’m sure we can ask them once you find them, Agent Barton,” Rumlow said before looking to his watch. His eyebrows were brought together for a moment before he dropped his wrist and looked to Sitwell. “My team’s needed right now, keep me updated,” Brock signaled for the rest of Strike to head out, the men and women heading out the door. Before he stepped out, Rumlow turned to look at Clint and pointed at the archer.

“We’re counting on you, Barton. No room for mistakes.”

“Agreed,” Clint replied. 

With Rumlow gone Barton turned to Sitwell, who stood across the room in observing fashion.

“You’re very willing to turn around and betray your friends.”

“I had S.H.I.E.L.D before I had the Avengers. And even then I owe S.H.I.E.L.D more than I owe them.”

“Just make sure you know what you’re doing, Barton.” Sitwell finished, and without another word he turned around and looked over the monitors.

“I always do,” Clint answered to Sitwell’s back, and he shoved his hands into his pockets before heading out of the meeting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Back Down the Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMpN_33uucs)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title from Back Down the Black by Boy & Bear. Check it out!


	2. Fairly Local

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who commented, left kudos, and bookmarked this story!  
> Updates will be on Thursday, that's the plan at least.   
> Hope you enjoy!

Clint had no idea what he was doing. Sure, he knew exactly what side he was on the moment that beautiful piece of shit had landed on the table, which also had happened to be surrounded by well-trained and armed Strike members at the time. But now that he was out of that survival test room, Clint needed to think of what to do.

So he left the Triskelion, nodding to a couple of the agents that buzzed around the main floor. The sunlight hit his face and the slightest tenseness left his shoulders as he got off the island.

Making his way into the city, Clint only made one stop before heading back to his apartment.

===>

“You know most people past their 90’s don’t push it past 60,” Natasha said as she watched the speedometer continue to climb.

“Most people past their 90’s aren’t being chased by a crime-fighting espionage organization they work for,” Steve easily replied, although he relaxed his foot on the pedal. His eyes flicked towards the mirrors every few minutes. 

The super soldier looked over to Natasha when he heard the distinct chime of a bargain cellphone. She had been carding through the stuff in the glove box, pushing a first aid kit out of the way while searching. Closing the glove box, Natasha scanned over the text message before she typed out a response. Closing the old flip-phone, she met Steve’s expectant gaze.

“Who’s the mystery person on the other line?”

Natasha huffed, attention drawn away as the phone lit up with a new text message. “Said agency has now assigned Barton to our case.”

Steve stared at Natasha for another moment, powerful gears running briefly in his head. “How worried should we be?”

Humming, Natasha closed the phone without responding to the text. She smiled at Steve.

“Never hurts to be a little worried Rogers.”

Steve snorted, leaning back into the driver’s seat more. “How is this gonna work with Barton after us?”

“They’re watching him, they’re unsure as to whether or not his loyalty lies with them or with us,” a slight pause divided her answer, voice almost imperceptibly softer. “S.H.I.E.L.D was Barton’s second chance, and mine.” 

They were both quiet, the heaviness of the future and its possible truths pressing closer. Natasha grew lost in thought while Steve weighed choices and loyalties in his head. He glanced at Natasha, distance in her eyes.

“Barton’s an Avenger, same as you and me. Whatever is happening at S.H.I.E.L.D right now puts all of us in the same boat. So,” Steve drew Natasha’s mind back to the present, “what do we do to help?”

“We bring him to us,” her hands were already opening the phone to text back. After the message sent, she looked around the interior of the car. Steve watched with a raised eyebrow before Natasha smiled.

“About only borrowing this car..”

Confusion flashed on Steve’s face for the briefest of moments before he sighed, scratching the back of his head. As his hand rested back on the steering wheel, he grumbled back a response.

“You’re paying for the damages.”

===>

Clint glanced down at the new phone in his hand, a cheap piece of equipment he had quickly grabbed in a small store a couple of blocks on the way to his apartment. Once he got home, it was only a matter of struggling against the plastic encasing for a few minutes before he was able to use the thing. 

There was no hesitation as Clint had punched in the familiar numbers of Natasha’s burner, one of their secret lines off the government radar. 

C: The Redskins are on the offense. Coach has thrown in a new quarterback, good aim.

Barton was quiet as he sat on the floor against the small island in his kitchen, mindlessly pulling at one of the torn pieces of plastic that circled around him. A terrible ringtone chimed on the phone, and Clint was eager as he checked the message.

N: Where are the Redskins playing today? I know it’s not a home game.

C: Don’t know, the quarterback’s supposedly useful in away games. Working with unfamiliar crowds. Stuck at home though until the game is set.

There was another pause of silence on Natasha’s side, and Clint sat waiting. It being a flip phone, Clint opened and closed the mobile device, watching every time he opened it how the screen would come to life. He froze after it finally chimed with the arrival of a new message.

N: Heard that the Titans in Jersey were up for a match, Redskins should take the interstate if they want to catch them on the turnpike.

C: Redskins’ll make their way out there soon, the weather could get a little rough, road might get bumpy.

N: Titans are ready for the storm, hope the Redskins are too.

C: See you at the game.

Clint let go of a heavy breath, letting it out slow before he breathed in. His hand held tight onto the phone until the archer slowly rose to his feet. Flipping the phone open, Clint stared at the last message briefly before he tore the top half of the phone off and threw both pieces into his trash can. Closing the lid, he set off to get ready for the mission.

Hurrying to his room, Clint dropped to the floor and shoved his arm under the bed, feeling around for one of the various boxes that were under there. His hand finding the case he had been looking for, grabbed it and yanked it out from the dark space. Throwing the case onto his bed, he turned around and went into his closet. Grabbing a pair of gloves and shoving them into his back pocket, Barton picked up the case off of the bed with one hand while the other pulled out his known cell phone and punched in a collection of numbers. After three rings the other end picked up. He spoke quickly and direct as he rushed out of his apartment and made his way out of the building.

“Inform Agent Sitwell that I have a location on the targets, let Strike and Rumlow know that I’m headed to meet them at the Triskelion. Have them prepped and ready to go, I’ll be there in about 25. And agent, remind Rumlow to pack non-lethals.”

===>

It hadn’t been hard to sneak into S.H.I.E.L.D’s garage. He knew where Strike set up for prep, it only took a matter of finding the best place to watch from a distance; something Clint had mastered over the years.

He was watching, balanced easily on his hidden perch above. He was watching, as the Strike leader double-checked the weapons, all filled with the intention of murder. He was watching, as his rival, his competitive ass of a friend, prepared to take down his colleagues. He watched all of this and didn’t bat an eye.

Clint Barton had a hard time trusting people. The knife of betrayal had twisted into his side too many times. He had felt it with his brother and had felt it with the one guy who had made him who he was, all with the lying promise to do good; to be good.

Betrayal hurt like a bitch, and it was eager to dig right into that scarred skin for another time.  
===>

Clint sat in the passenger seat of the SUV, one of three that were headed down the interstate while completely overshooting the speed limit. Jack Rollins, Rumlow’s second in command, sat behind the wheel, his foot pressed almost to the floor as he followed the other SUV in front them. 

“How long have you worked with Captain America, Jack?” Clint asked, looking away from the window and towards the driver.

“I worked beside him for awhile.” Jack’s finger bounced on the steering wheel.

A hum of consideration settled in the back of Clint’s throat. “Does it bother you at all to hunt him down?”

“I’m doing my job.” There was more to the quick answer, Clint could feel the eagerness radiating off of Rollins. An itch for a trigger and a star in his sights tapped out on his finger against the wheel.

A memory clicked into Clint’s head then. There had been an old woman, Loretta, who ran a booth at the circus. She would try and guess people’s secrets, act like it was mind reading. Really she had a natural talent for reading people rather than minds. Questions would fly from her mouth and Clint would watch in awe as she slowly whittled away at the person’s thoughts and secrets. Inspiration took hold in his head.

“Do you have a favorite superhero? Because I don’t think it’s Captain America. You got that little twinkle in your eye when I bring it up, I’m thinking,” Clint tilted his head in thought before he nodded. “Yeah, you’re definitely more of a Thor guy. Is it the cape, the hair? I’m gonna say hair. And it doesn’t really look like a jealousy thing,” Clint held up a finger to his head, baited silence waiting as he seemed to study Jack’s reddened face. Realization seemed to take his face as his eyes lit up. “No wait, I was wrong.”

“Barton,” Jack seethed, refusing to take his eyes off the road. The Strike members in the back held their breath, afraid to intervene in whatever it was taking place.

“Was that too much?” 

“We’ve got possible eyes on the targets traveling in a blue truck up ahead, be prepared to engage,” Rumlow’s voice crackled to life on the radio, interrupting Jack from retaliation.

“Get ready, Barton,” Rollins ordered, his eyes locking onto the borrowed truck.

“Aye, aye captain,” Clint muttered with a smile before pulling out the case. Inside the container sat one of the archer’s old favorites. It was a takedown bow he had designed himself, a dark red forming the majority of the structure. The drawback on it was pretty heavy, even for Barton’s skills. Alongside the parts of one of his favorite masterpieces was his quiver, plenty of arrows ready for the firefight about to go down. 

Careful yet precise, Clint pieced the bow together, feeling a couple of the Strike agents’ eyes on his back. He could understand their intrigue, why someone who has great aim would stick to such an old-fashioned weapon. It’s not that Clint wasn’t against guns, hell he was very thankful to the P30 that was strapped to his thigh. But the bow is what made him Hawkeye, he was a part of the weapon every time he drew the string back.  
Grabbing his quiver, Barton held tight onto the center grip of his bow as he rolled down his window. Clint looked to Rollins as he began to make his way off the passenger seat.

“Keep the driving smooth Bandit,” he said, and then the bowman was head-first out the window. He moved fast, one foot sinking into the soft chair while the other lay flat on part of the door. Sitting on the window, Clint kept his right arm down while it held the bow, his other holding tight onto the car handle beside the windshield. His heart was settled, his eyes fighting against the fast wind that pushed against him.

It kind of reminded Clint of tightroping, but more on his ass than on his feet.

Watching the truck as it grew closer to the first SUV, a heavy breath left the archer as he let go of the door handle. All of his movements were slow, one hand reaching for an arrow while his other slowly raised the bow up. His hands didn’t shake as he rested the arrow on the bow, and his breath was steady as he began to pull the string back. The weight was heavy, the full pull back of the drawstring tense. There was one person in the cabin, it wouldn’t be hard to hit the tire, watch the car spin out of control. He would be freed from suspicion.

It felt quiet, patient.

Then Hawkeye was in action. No longer slow, the archer was quick as he spun around, aimed at the rear SUV, and released the arrow. It shot through the air, hitting the front grill of the car before the explosive tip incapacitated the vehicle. The blue truck was visible through the corner of his eye, and he watched as a blur of fiery hair rose from the back of the truck and shot at the first SUV. 

The comms exploded with noise. Clint could hear Rollins curse from inside the SUV. Like the snake that he was, the Strike member grabbed at Clint’s foot, hand wrapped around the archer’s ankle as if they were python jaws. Outside of the car was more chaos, the first SUV returning fire at Natasha, then Natasha returning fire at them. 

Fighting against Jack’s grip, Clint tried to kick at the guy with his foot while his free hand decided to work with the more risky part of his plan. Feeling for the door handle, the archer felt Rollins lose his grip on his foot and he acted in opportunity. Opening the door handle, Clint pushed off the chair with his foot and swung the door open. 

Hanging above speeding pavement, Clint felt himself easily remembering the fact that he was not, in fact, a super soldier, a demigod, or a green rage monster that could deflect death as if to swat at a fly. One hand holding onto the top of the open door, Barton slipped the bow onto his back. The drawstring pressed tight against his chest, but Barton refused to throw the thing away, even as cumbersome as it was right now.

With two free hands, Clint held onto the door for dear life as it shook against the air. 

“Someone shoot him!” He heard Jack shout from inside, and soon the other window on his side was rolling down. Kicking the car frame to push the door all the way back out, Clint threw caution to the wind as he lifted himself up and got his feet to balance on where he had been sitting. Gun pointing out of the window, Clint swung the door back towards the car. Letting go of the top part of the door, Barton pulled himself to the top of the SUV. 

For a moment the archer was still. His heart wasn’t as steady, his breathing heavy as his hands held onto the metal sidebars. 

Thank God for whoever thought putting shit on top of a car was a good idea.

Barton jumped, though, as he heard a closer gunshot that didn’t come from the continuing battle of Nat vs corrupt SHIELD guys. He could feel the vibrations from the shot as it had hit the roof of the car, poking a hole in the SUV. And thanks to whatever wise guy made the first shot, everyone else decided to join in. 

Standing up, Clint looked to the first SUV whose side was covered in bullet holes. The distance was close, but the archer was motivated as shots rang out and more holes were popping up on the car like daisies. Shaking his head once to clear away whatever mountain of doubts piled up, Barton took off and jumped.

His arm flailed, his legs churned, and for a moment Clint thought, believed, he was a dead man. 

Suddenly though his hands found the car, and he held on tight while his legs were unsupportive. Just on his toes, Barton could touch the back of the car that extended past the trunk door. Gunshots were still everywhere.

With Clint’s face turned, he could see Steve and Nat’s truck on his right. It was nearly parallel with the SUV, the side as badly damaged as its opponent. He watched for a moment as Nat’s head poked up again, and her eyes spotted Clint hanging from the back of the truck. A sheepish grin came over his face as he watched her eyes narrow, but she only shook her head a moment before shooting at his current ride once more.

Well aware of the SUV still behind him and full of armed people, Barton swung to his left. Both hands held onto the car tight, and Clint started to try and climb onto the top. The archer was halfway up, and then his leg caught on fire. At least, that’s what it felt like as the bullet hit his calf. Looking back, Barton saw Rollins aiming at him while his gun stuck out from the window. 

Clint clenched his teeth, holding back his pain’s demand to shout out. Deep down he thought he should be used to the feeling, but every time it was a fabulous experience of hell. He cringed as he pushed off the wounded leg, pulling himself onto the top of the car. Part of the SUV’s tail light shattered from Jack’s shots. Barton barely had time to press himself flat against the roof before he felt a bullet scrape the air inches above his face.

Rolling onto his stomach, Clint pushed himself up to his hands and knees, head down as he collected himself. 

“Stay focused Barton,” the archer muttered, his head turning to look at the blue truck. Natasha was more visible now from the higher view, her eyes locking with his. She held up her gun, shaking her head to him. 

So she’s out for cover, Clint watching as more bullets hit the side of the truck. Steve was visible at the driver’s seat, the glass from his window shattered save for the few shards that stuck up at the bottom. 

Reaching for his thigh, Clint grabbed the P30 and inched closer to the right side. He dropped again though as Rollins fired at him. Waiting for the shots to stop, the archer held tight to his firearm and got onto his knees, aiming at Jack’s car. He fired three times at the windshield, not piercing through the glass but instead sending several cracks through both it and the Strike member’s visibility. Clint then shot at the tires, twice at the front one on Jack’s side. It was after his second shot that one of the Strike team members who sat at the passenger seat returned fire, and Clint shouted as his side was hit. 

“Steve!” Barton heard Natasha’s voice shout through the orchestral haze of pain and gunshots. Everything hurt, and Clint stayed on his knees for only a moment before he felt himself falling off the side of the SUV. With the pavement nearing, Clint closed his eyes and took a final breath that was soaked in pain. Regrets sank to the bottom of his head, yet they refused to settle with the deadly plunge; refused to make the archer feel like at the end. Rather Clint’s heart swallowed the entirety of his innards with the warmth and life it had always tried to give the man. Like a gentle fire in a small house.

Everything drifted off as he fell, colliding with the hard surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fairly Local](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDI9inno86Um)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Title is Fairly Local, by Twenty One Pilots. Check it out!


	3. Wheel in the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Compromised! The next part of the series will start updating on the first Thursday of October, hope you all enjoyed this first story!
> 
> Thanks

“Barton!”

The world shook for a moment, and then the darkness stilled.

“Barton!”

The world shook again, and then the darkness stilled.

“Clint, dammit!”

Instead of a shake, it was a sting, and Clint Barton jumped back into existence. He wasn’t spread out along the interstate, which was a nice surprise. What wasn’t so pleasant was the pain that took over his body, the most recent coming from the fading red mark on his cheek.

“Son of a bitch,” Clint groaned, beginning to curl onto his side. The archer was quickly stopped though as a stiff arm pushed him back onto his back, holding him still.

“I wouldn’t wanna do that,” a familiar voice warned, and Clint cracked his eyes open to the image of Natasha Romanoff staring down at him.

“Tasha?” Barton asked, and this time he tried sitting up to get a look at their surroundings. But Natasha kept him down, shaking her head. “You changed your hair again,” the archer muttered as his head hit the floor.

“How’s he doing?” A new voice questioned.

It only took Clint a moment to figure out that that was Captain America speaking. So much patriotism. 

Captain America, Black Widow, pain- oh, Suddenly Clint remembered why everything hurt and why Captain America and Black Widow were there. Trying to sit up again, Clint could see that he and Nat were riding back of the truck. She barely let him up, but the marksman was quick to spot his wounds.

“I’m doing great Cap, just a scratch,” Clint replied before the words turned into a groan. His head dropped against the metal floor of the box. Pale hands were covered with red as they worked, trying to stop the flow. The feel of cotton pressed against his side was slightly reassuring, but the pressure caused him to grit his teeth. 

“You’re lucky the shot in your leg missed the femoral artery, might not have been able to help you then,” Natasha said as she pulled the blood-soaked gauze away, taking barely a second before a clean one replaced it.

“Thanks for the optimism Tasha,” Clint wheezed out a laugh, hands balled up as if he was screaming through the white knuckled fingers. “This isn’t gonna be like Brazil again, is it?”

“I had to improvise,” the Widow countered plainly before she quickly looked at Barton with a raised eyebrow while she applied more pressure. “And you were the one who broke right through the front door. I wasn’t the one who ended up with a hit on his arm and three broken ribs, one of which nearly-

“Punctured my lung, yeah yeah.”

“Keep your hand on that,” she ordered, grabbing his hand and pressing it against the gauze. 

“Had to stop ‘em from getting at the girl.” Clint grumbled as his own hand pushed against his side.

Natasha glanced at Clint with confidential affection before she turned back to the silent battle to save his life.

The feeling of wet blood skimmed at the palm of his hand, beads of sweat noticeable on the archer’s pale face. The drive was quiet, Clint looking up a couple of times at Natasha as she worked on his leg, but soon the attempt carried almost too much of an effort. So he focused on the cold touch of the truck against his back, of the pain that throbbed with his slow heart beating, on the sky. The sky was easiest to look at, since it was directly in front of him, all blue and bright. Squinting against the light of day, a quiet grunt fought its way out of Barton’s clenched jaw every time pain stabbed at his side or through his leg. Suddenly the sky seemed to shift for a moment, the clouds looking like as if they were split in half. But Clint was distracted from the sky as Natasha finished tying fabric around his patched up leg, pulling the knot tightly. He let out a small cry from the pressure, the outburst dying off into a slight growl as he clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared but he kept his face still, focused on regulating his breathing. 

Natasha watched his face carefully, her eyes narrowed in study. Waiting for lines to soften or harden, for his breath to go silent, for his heart to beat faster, for Clint to show Natasha how he needed to be helped.

Pain on Barton was an old-friend that Clint only occasionally agreed to share. He would greet his friend, who cheerfully decorated in marvelous shades of purple, green, and a particular flowing dress of red. She’d known him since he was a child, and had been there to paint his skin. She was keeper of his past, and every outstanding line on her breathing canvas was another chapter in the archer’s biography. Scars worth pages of writing littered his body, stories stitched into his skin. After Budapest, Natasha tried her best to keep the bitch away.

“I’m good, Tasha.” Clint answered hoarsely, his voice soft while his eyes grew vacuous.

“Don’t fall asleep on me yet, Clint,” Natasha urged quietly, and for a moment Clint’s eyes lost their fade and the two looked at one another. There was something ineffable in the way they stared, like a match to a box; constantly striking its side with the possibility of light.

“This was supposed to be my day off. I deserve five minutes.”

A huff of breath, be it a laugh or a sigh Clint could not read, left the assassin’s mouth. Her thumb traced faintly on his wrist while her fingers pressed against the skin underneath his palm. Going up at an angle, then going down at an angle before drawing straight down the center where the two diagonals met.

It was Clint’s turn to provide the soft laughter, and he smiled up at her while his eyelids felt heavy. “You’re funny.” The secretive smile on her face, she sighed as she kept her hold on his hand. The wind fought Natasha’s hair, throwing the red strands into her face. Clint’s hazy vision blurred the focus, and for a moment his heart caught in his throat at the sight of her. With a turn of his wrist he held tightly onto her own hand. His hold on her wrist was desperate as he was unable to repress the pulling unconsciousness his body demanded.

⇒ 

Clint was slow as he sat up, ignoring the right hook pain was throwing into his side. Cautiously, the archer glanced around before he scooted over to the edge of the truck. Natasha was no longer in the back with him, his fingers twitching at the ghost of her hand in his. Taking in the environment, the archer scanned the trees and then the collection of buildings laid out in military precision. Emptiness filled the buildings, soaked into the very structure of them. He stopped the observations as Clint spotted Steve approaching the now conscious archer.

“Here,” Steve offered as he shook off the outer jacket, handing it to Clint. The marksman stared at it for a moment, his right leg swinging back and forth slightly. 

“Thanks Cap.” Clint took the jacket, putting it on to cover his injured side. He felt a little less exposed now. Steve didn’t reply for a moment, Barton noticing the way he was looking at the scars permanently sewn into his torso.

“I should be thanking you,” Steve replied. “You didn’t have to help us out.”

“We’re teammates, Rogers. If I don’t have you or Nat’s back then what am I good for?” Steve leaned against the truck. His arms were crossed as he looked at Clint.

“You’re good for a lot of things, Barton. Romanoff may not be around if you hadn’t done what you did. You’re a hero, you know that right?”

Clint laughed, soft and short. “I’m a spy. Assassin. Haven’t really considered putting hero down on the resume anytime soon.” He shook his head as he watched his foot continue to swing.

“You always step up to the plate, Clint.” The archer looked up as Steve used his name. “You did with Loki and New York, and you saved lives.”

For a moment Clint had frozen at the sound of the demigod’s name. He stared at Cap for a while, and Steve didn’t say anything as he stared right back with determination in his eye.

“I-” Clint huffed as his tongue struggled to form the right words. “I’m just doing my job.”

“You do what’s right,” Steve corrected.

Clint rubbed at his face with a calloused hand. “You always this much of a pain in the ass Steve?” 

“That’s what I keep hearing.” Steve smiled. 

Groaning, Clint dropped onto his feet, the left one buckling until Steve came to support him. 

“Steve,” the archer said as he supported himself with a hold on the truck. The Captain looked at Clint expectantly. “Whether or not I think I’m a hero, doesn’t matter. I’m gonna help you and Nat see this through, and then,” Clint paused as he looked Rogers in the eye, “I’m going to go back to bed. Can’t catch a break for one day without both of you dragging me into gunfights on the interstate. How come I’m the only one who gets shot?”

“Because you’re Clint, Clint.” Natasha answered as she joined the two behind the truck. “And Rollins still holds a grudge with you after what you did in Morocco.”

“Rollins can kiss my ass,” Clint grumbled. Natasha quirked an eyebrow with a typical smirk before looking at Steve.

“No sign of Rumlow or any of the STRIKE team, we should be good for now.”

Silence passed among the three of them.

“Jersey sucks,” Clint grumbled as he took another step. Almost dropping, Natasha and Steve supported the archer. Together they made their way into the camp.

⇒ 

The world was silent as the sky began to darken. Such silence was held with a known anticipation that ushered clouds away to make room for a clear sky, both gods and Clint Barton watching and waiting.

Clint was careful with each breath he took, every inhale lightly tugging at the wound on his side. The wood planks hanging off of the house creaked slightly while Clint quietly stared out. He was lucky he had yet to get any splinters from the worn boards. As cool air brushed against him, the archer zipped up the Captain’s jacket up more.

The thought of Steve caused Barton to snort, his fingers tracing alongside the upper limb of his bow. The thing with working alongside Steve Rogers for the first time, is that you don’t quite know what to expect. Clint hadn’t run with him much after New York, sticking to ops with Strike and solo runs. Natasha seemed to get along with him, and Clint was happy for her. She kept her circle small, though the Avengers weren’t low profile like spies. It was new and dangerous and Clint had done his fair share to contribute to making it that way. 

Rubbing a hand on his face, a long exhale left Clint. He didn’t know Steve like Natasha did. Hell, he didn’t know much about him save for the files on him that he had briefly glanced at in the file that Coulson had hidden under one of his fancy antiques. Certainly, he’s seen Cap in action to know that the guy is someone you want on your side. The guy chose to trust Clint after what Loki had done to him, which the archer was still trying to understand. 

But the one thing Barton could understand about Steve was his spirit. Rogers still carries the spirit that Brooklyn had filled him with 90 years ago. He could see it in the way Steve fought during New York, heard about it when Natasha would reveal some of the small talk she and Rogers made. 

Clint owed it to Steve to prove himself now, to watch his back and help him finish whatever had started out of Nick’s death.

The silence pulled Barton away from his thoughts, his eyes looking down at the mound of earth that almost hid where Nat and Steve were. They had been in there for awhile, the moon reflecting a glow across the camp. It felt like a spotlight on Clint, and he could feel the chill of watching eyes travel again through his skin.

Slowly, Clint felt for the arrow of his choice and nocked it onto the bow. He didn’t pull the drawstring back completely, but he pointed it forwards, towards the lone road that entered the camp. He drew in a heavy breath.

The shift in the sky appeared and it took less than a second for Clint to readjust his aim and knock the arrow back. It flew, spinning in the air until it collided with the invisible machine. Electricity surged from the arrow’s tip, and Clint watched as the Quinjet was painted into existence. 

His second arrow flew swiftly towards the jet and Clint followed its path as it cracked the glass, held back by the exterior from landing into Rumlow’s head. He drew his third, intending to break through the glass with the next shot, when he heard the approaching projectile.

Clint’s heart stopped as he watched the missile come out of nowhere and crash into the bunker, which blew up in a fury of smoke and fire. The earth that had flown quickly fell back to the ground, while the sight became enveloped in a thick darkness. He lost visual on the Quinjet as the ruinous smoke spread.

Ignoring the Quinjet, he looked at the base of the giant column of smoke. Fires littered the earth, dancing on the debris. He stared and stared, indecision balanced on impossible hope. But wasn’t that what Captain America was for? 

Fire gave it a soft light as it pushed away the larger fallen pieces of the debris. Rings of red, white, and blue flood the archer with relief, and as soon as he spotted Nat behind Cap, Clint focused back onto Rumlow.

Drawing back, Clint stared into the spreading oblivion. The center of the column remained solid in its blackness, but the edge of the cloud took on a fainter, thinner shade. Patiently, the marksman kept his arrow aimed at the smoke’s center, waiting for the sign he needed. A shift was spotted, the Quinjet trying to move, and Clint fired.

The third arrow flew into the darkness, and he watched as a flash of light appeared on the other side. He didn’t hold back, knowing that they were blinded for the moment. He lined up two arrows, his entire body focusing on the source of the light. Pain dug into his side, but he kept his breathing slow and even. His fingers released, the arrows soaring through the sky and away from him, the weapon, and the explosive tips dug into the Quinjet’s surface.

The sound rocked the air, and he listened as the aircraft fell onto the ground. Silence circled the battlefield, but it had yet to engulf the area. It waited, patient.

“Clint.”

“Tasha,” Clint spun around, wincing as pain seeped into his tired bones. Despite the hurt he felt with each step, he limped hurriedly over to where Natasha and Steve stood at the top of the stairs. The two were covered with smears of dirt and scrapes.

She was quick to hold him as he was quick to hold her, Clint resting his head in her shoulder for a moment. As he pulled away, the two leaned on each other for support.

“Nice shooting,” Steve said. He squeezed Clint’s shoulder. “Might give us enough time to get out of here.”

“Not enough if we don’t get a move on, I managed to get the Quinjet down but I have a feeling they didn’t come alone. You know how to get out of here besides the road?”

Steve looked around the building, nodding. “Yeah, these buildings had tunnels built underneath. Small measure in case of emergencies. I’ve only been down there once but there should be an exit at the end.”

“Lead the way then Cap,” Clint offered as his hand waved at the staircase. Clint and Natasha supported each other down the stairs, the archer and the spy holding hands. Both needed the touch, to feel the connection of life that thrummed between the two of them.

With Rogers leading, the three of them had made their way to the second floor when all hell broke loose.

Steve barely had time to raise his shield before the explosion knocked him back into a room, separating the soldier from the spies. Natasha, forever quick in her movements, managed to push both her and Clint down into the hallway as gunfire hit the wall where they had been standing. 

Feet landing could be heard above them, Clint picking out the sound of approaching enemies on their floor. Grabbing onto his arm, Natasha helped Clint to his feet and he drew an arrow just as the Strike members appeared. They were not so lucky to catch Barton’s prepped arrow, for the Black Widow was already charging.

She swept out the first one, who fell to the ground with ease. Back on her feet, Natasha grabbed at the second one’s raised gun and twisted it away from his hand, throwing it at the third one’s face; his nose cracked from the impact and he dropped as well. Holding onto the second guy’s twisted hand, she followed through with the motion and a crack snapped throughout the hall. The man’s arm was completely contorted as she pulled him close, and her forehead crashed into his. Natasha looked down at the three men on the ground before grabbing one of their guns and returning to Clint’s side.

“You threw the gun at the guy’s face,” Clint snorted as Natasha supported him, the two stepping over the bodies.

“He was aiming at you, and you already got shot today.” 

“It doesn’t happen everyday,” Clint argued.

Natasha simply stared back at the archer, verbal in her silent tongue. 

“Let’s go find Star Spangled.”

Natasha kept her weapon raised as they moved throughout the house. They couldn’t call out to Rogers, but Clint pointed towards the right when he heard the familiar ring of Steve’s shield. A shout followed, and the two of them made it to the door as another Strike member laid on the floor, the shield fitted on Steve’s arm.

Steve looked up at the two, relief in his eyes before he raised his shield to throw it.

Clint was ahead of Steve though, and he twisted the arrow in his hand before turning to stab it into the Strike member behind them. Electricity crackled as the woman spasmed, crumpling to the ground while her limbs continued to twitch.

“I get cool points for that,” Clint said as the two stared at him. “But I’ll settle with getting out of here now.”

“On it.” Steve Rogers promised as he stepped into the hallway beside them, and once more he took the lead while the two assassins watched their back.

Steve glanced down the stairwell that led to the first floor, shield raised to his chest. Clint felt for a specific arrow’s tip before pulling it from his quiver and nocking it onto the drawstring. Wincing, Clint looked down to see blood seeping through the jacket Cap had given him.

Natasha watched Steve, who had stopped his check of the stairwell in favor of listening. She wrapped two of her fingers into the sleeve of Clint’s jacket while they waited for word from Rogers.

Clint could take in the details of Natasha’s face for hours. The lines painting a beautiful picture of hardship and determination. Life thrummed in her, even now as she subconsciously fiddled with the trigger on her gun. Scrapes and earth covered her, and she was the perfect kind of mess that Clint could never stop staring at.

Natasha met his observant eyes, a curiosity weighing down her brow, but Rogers interrupted as he pulled away from the stairway.

“They’ve got the first floor well covered, they know we’re on the second floor. Rumlow’s on his way, and Rollins is down there. I can hear him.”

“I can get them off their feet,” Clint provided, “but after that we’re going to need to find that way out as soon as possible. The longer we wait the worse our odds are looking.”

“I know,” Steve murmured, his brain racing with memories of the building’s layout and where Rumlow would place his men. His eyes skirted between Clint and Natasha, quickly taking inventory of their condition; his eyes had briefly paused on Clint’s bloody side. Thinking back to Rumlow, Steve considered how he would play it out. Rumlow was smart, and if he were Rumlow he’d focus on the stairs. That’s their only way down from inside the building.

Stairway, heavy focus. Steve could hear the hum of another aircraft, not above the building but growing closer. Focus on getting to the first floor. Trapdoor to the tunnels would be across the floor, too many men to get through? No, there’s a way. Clint’s better from a distance, especially with the injury.h Natasha’s a swiss army knife, even now she’s running on all cylinders.

“I got it.” Steve said.

“Fill us in Star-Spangled,” Clint grinned.  
⇒

The arrow hit the floor, and the men were unable to finish their shouts of surprise before the shock wave went off, knocking all of the Strike soldiers to the floor. Feet could be seen sticking out at the entryway of the staircase, and Clint fired a second arrow, the metal tip digging through the fabric and nailing the bastard to the ground. 

Silence briefly filled in the abandoned building, leaving Clint to keep his focus between the two staircases. So far there had been no sign of a mobilized team upstairs, but the archer maintained his vigilance.

Shifting and cursing could be heard, the enemy regaining their footing and preparing for an assault. Clint could hold his position for as long as necessary, or at least until he ran out of arrows. He was already running low on the specialized tips. The shock wave arrow had only been a prototype Barton had intended to take out of his quiver to test later. Procrastination seemed to be their savior at the moment, though he should talk to Tony about upping the power in the tip. The sound of metal, guns, shifting in soldier’s hands could be heard.

The first one to approach the staircase was immediately met with an arrow hitting their left shoulder. Clint watched, back pressed against the wall while he already had the next arrow prepped. The Strike soldier stumbled out of view.

“Give it up Rollins, surrender now and maybe I’ll even shoot you somewhere non-lethal.”

“Don’t think so Barton,” Jack Rollins shouted back up to the marksman, “I saw you take a hit, and I don’t think you’re good for a fight right now.” The traitor appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, gun raised while he smiled up at Clint’s injured form.

The two aimed their weapons at one another, Jack continuing to smile at the prospect of ending the famed Hawkeye.

“You could’ve taken a dive off the car, saved yourself the trouble. But you always were a pain in the ass.”

Rollins didn’t hear the soldier approaching, stealth heavy in the man’s shoes. 

“I’m not the only one,” Clint smirked. Rollins whirled around just in time for Captain America to slam his shield into Jack’s face. 

“You good?”

“Super,” Clint answered as he placed the arrow back into his quiver. He made an attempt to go down the stairs, almost losing his footing until Steve took two bounding steps and caught him. 

“Right,” Steve said as he studied Clint’s face. He looked pallor, sweat beading on his brow. A strange look of determination was heavy in his eyes.

“Less worrying, more hurrying Rogers.” 

With Steve’s support Clint managed to make it down the flight of stairs, and Steve took lead as they went through the halls. Strike members laid strewn about the first floor. 

Natasha appeared as they took another turn, and she didn’t hesitate coming over to support Clint’s other side. Together, the three of them made it to the end of the hall. They opened the door to a room on the right, about to enter when Clint saw the movement of black at the other end of the hallway.

“Lookout!” he shouted as the enemy launched a device in their direction. Steve acted first, shoving Clint and Natasha into the room while he raised his shield to deflect the device. The explosion rang out, throwing Steve back into the wall. Clint winced as he heard the crack of the impact. 

Natasha got back on her feet in a flash, helping Clint up before she looked out the doorway. She stepped out with gun in hand as she took aim and fired at the new troops. Using the gunfire as cover, Clint limped over to where Steve was. The super soldier was almost completely in the wall, shield still attached to his arm.

“Hey, come on Steve. I thought I was the one who’s always getting hurt,” Clint shook Steve, who was still trying to shake off the blow. Blood coated the side of Steve’s head, which began to cover parts of his ear and neck.

“Guess we have that in common,” Steve muttered, coughing from the dust that floated in the air. His eyes fluttered opened, catching sight of Natasha firing off round after round. “We need to go.”

“Sounds good,” Clint grunted as he helped the super soldier to his feet. Leaning on each other, the super soldier and the archer made it into the room. Pulling back, Natasha fired off one last round before closing the door and locking it. Barton and Natasha grabbed a table, barricading the only door in the room.

Steve was looking around the room while Clint watched from his place against the wall.

“I’d say their backup arrived but that’s a bit obvious,” Romanoff said. She walked over to Clint’s side, looking at Steve’s face. “You okay Rogers?”

“I’ll live,” Steve dismissed, “I’m not the one who needs a doctor right about now.”

“What I need right now is to get out of Jersey,” Clint laughed, “apartment back in Bed-Stuy is looking pretty good right now.”

“Russian mobsters included?” Natasha asked.

Bullet holes began to rip through the door, Natasha raising her gun to her chest.

“I’d take that over this right now.”

“Found it!” Steve said as he ripped open a chunk of the floor panel, revealing the tunnel hidden underneath the trap door.

“Let’s get out of here.” Relief filled Clint while he listened to the Strike team ramming against the door in the background. Steve dropped down into the dark, Clint still managing to make out the faint glimmer of his shield in the darkness. 

Natasha and Clint stood above the tunnel, the former about to help the archer into the tunnel when an explosion threw the two back. Clint hit the wall, the air leaving his pained body. The quiver on his back smashed between him and the wall and arrows spilled out next to him. Natasha laid outstretched on the floor, still close to the secret passage.

The outer wall was gone, and Brock Rumlow stood on top of its remains. Behind him stood another Strike team, there guns raised at the two. Everyone was still, waiting. Clint and Rumlow stared at one another in anticipation.

Then Brock’s eyes glanced at Natasha, closer to the traitor while she hadn’t recovered from the blast yet. Clint grabbed the arrow closest to his hand. For a split second he looked back over to Barton before the two acted at the same moment.

Rumlow went for his gun, pulling it out to shoot the fallen Black Widow. Clint was closer, and the adrenaline forced his battered body to action with an instinctual chorus: Save Nat.

He ran for only two steps before his injured leg buckled, but Barton kept the momentum as he slid onto his knees and across the floor. Just as Clint was about to reach Natasha, Rumlow had his gun out and aimed at her head. 

A brief image flashed back into Barton’s head, red streaks running across Natasha’s face.

An arrow was in Clint’s hand, and as he reached her side the mission never felt so clear. 

“Finish the job, Rogers!” Clint shouted as he shoved Natasha, the better half he’ll never deserve, into the tunnel with Captain America. He slammed the door after her, and smashed the arrow tip onto it.

From the tip a thick, black substance sprang loose. It solidified as it covered the door, preventing the secret entrance from being re-opened anytime soon. 

Clint turned his head to look up at Rumlow, the muzzle of the gun pressed against the archer’s forehead. His eyes ran up the barrel and spotted Rumlow’s thumb pressed down on the safety. One second more and Natasha Romanoff would have been removed from his world. 

Meeting the Strike leader’s gaze, Clint grinned at Brock.

“Putty arrow, asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wheel in the Sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0sfhppn1e8.)
> 
> Chapter title: Wheel in the Sky by Journey. Check it out!


	4. Disloyal Order of the Water Buffaloes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I cannot promise for the chapters to update on a schedule, but I am happy to finally post the next chapter for this story. Thanks to all those who will see this after a long time of not even glancing at it, I'm sure the email notification may ask you to remember what even this story was. The new title might also throw some of you if you don't remember this story right off the bat, but it is still the same story. I promise.

Clint tried to get up, lifting with his hands beneath his chest and his knees pressing into the floor of the old building. A boot slammed into his ribs and the soft flesh of his stomach. His lungs failed to hold onto any air as he collapsed on his back.

A small laugh passed through Clint’s lips, sending blood and saliva from his mouth to trail down his face. He looked back at the wall behind him, spotting the bullet hole. His right ear was still ringing. He didn’t try to wipe at the blood from his mouth, or his nose, or the several cuts on his face, one of which was dripping past his eyebrow and down his swollen eye. 

“Feel better, Brock?”

His nostrils flared and his eyes were wide with fury. Two soldiers behind him were still trying to hack away at the putty, knives uselessly chipping against the dark substance. Clint gave a bloodied grin. 

“Guess not.”

Rumlow growled in frustration and kicked at Barton once more. The thick material boosted by Rumlow’s anger slammed against Natasha’s patchwork and Clint cried out before lowering into a frustrated groan. The Strike leader turned on his heel, watching his soldiers. Clint watched his shoulders tense, fists tighten, and Rumlow whirled back to face Clint. He crouched down by the archer’s side.

Again, Clint found himself staring up at the barrel of Rumlow’s gun. “You gonna beat me with that a couple more times or are you finally gonna aim that thing properly?”

“You want me to?”

Clint sighed, looking aimlessly at the ceiling before he narrowed his eyes at Rumlow. “I want you to make up your mind, Brock.”

“You’re a real son of a bitch you know that, Barton?”

“Thanks.”

“There’s no point digging through that anymore. I want a team working on finding Rogers and Romanoff. That tunnel ends somewhere and there needs to be a greeting party when they exit. Francesco, Derrickson, grab Barton and get him to the Quinjet. Fix what you can til we get him to medical.”

Clint didn’t have the energy to sigh again. Each breath was working to pass through his lungs. Exhaustion was soaked into his limbs and clung tightly to his skin. If he was lucky, the blood loss would take him away first.

Hands wrapped underneath his arms and dragged him away. With his better eye he stared down the room full of traitors. His bow, the pieces split and scattered across the floor, sent a harsh ache in his already pained chest. Rumlow stood at the foot of the broken weaponry. Clint refused to look away.  
Rumlow, the room, and the trapdoor quickly disappeared with Francesco and Derrickson’s swift footsteps.

Clint fought for focus as they hurriedly left the building. Each turn, shift, and bump made Clint want to scream. Soon the floorboards disappeared and his legs were brushing the worn earth as they kept up their quick pace.

“Come on, Barton. Hang in there.” 

“Fuck off, Derrickson,” Clint muttered. The archer stopped watching his blood trail behind him on the dirt and dropped his head. Now that he was out of Rumlow’s sight, the bow no longer in his hand and the trapdoor still sealed, Clint gave in to the exhaustion. His one good eye closed and Barton allowed himself to feel it all.

Every injury whined at Clint like a child. Some part of his left arm throbbed, his knuckles sore. The important parts of his hand had been saved. It felt like a baseball had taken over the space his left eye occupied, swelling over the bone and throwing off any form of balance. The blood that coated his right side glued Cap’s jacket to his skin. His right leg flared up every time it was jostled from the traitors carrying him, and if Barton had the strength he would’ve ripped it off just to end the continuing strike of pain. 

A thousand needles in a thousand different places poking at his insides. Reminding him he was alive. Telling him that he could suffer forever and she would be there to lull him back to consciousness. She would sew him a new story while he watched.

Boots kicked against metal and Barton let go of a short breath. He didn’t open his eye to try and look. His ears were too familiar with the interior; the soft sounds of the Quinjet humming in hello. Another ache in his chest that he didn’t have the space for.

“Check records for his blood type, I’ll get started on the GSW’s.”

Cold steel briefly touched his skin before it cut through Cap’s jacket. It was a haze of pain and misery as wounds were examined and slowly repaired. A needle dug into his hand, tape holding it down. His leg cried out when the bullet wound was touched. His side was a monster gnawing away at whatever was left of him. 

He blacked out briefly. It wasn’t sleep. It was the endless sensation of slowly falling. Until the familiar sensation of a needle digging into his flesh for stitches pulled Clint jumped back into consciousness. 

Opening his one good eye, Clint saw the dark surface of the Quinjet’s interior walls. A false sense of security thrummed in his chest for a brief moment at the sight. He’d known these walls for years. Flown this bird for years. Betrayed by his colleagues for years.

“Don’t move, Barton,” Francesco ordered. Her eyes didn’t move away from her sutures as she continued to sew up Clint’s side.

Clint grit his teeth, his hand wrapping around the gurney’s side. He was surprised he hadn’t worn grooves into it by now. Maybe it was new. “Fuck off, Francesco.”

“Clint—”

“Don’t say that.” Clint winced as she drew the thread tight. “Don’t.”

She cut the thread and set her tools down. Sighing, she took her blood-covered gloves and pulled them off. Throwing them onto the tray, she went and sat down across from the side of Clint’s gurney where Derrickson sat.

“You’re welcome, for saving your life.”

“Fu-”

“Will you stop?” Francesco snapped. 

Clint didn’t turn his head. “You wouldn’t have had to save my life if you guys weren’t out to kill.”

“We’re following orders. You didn’t.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You just don’t understand, Clint,” Derrickson spoke up. “We are serving a greater purpose that S.H.I.E.L.D could never live up to. We’re going to make an actual difference.”

“By killing Captain America?”

“He opposes what could finally bring peace. He’s on the wrong side of history. Just like you.”

“Great,” Clint sighed. “And what greater purpose are you serving, Derrickson?”

The word passed through Derrickson’s lips with twisted enthrallment. “Hydra.”

Clint’s breath caught in his throat before it rushed into his lungs. He’d heard plenty stories from Phil. Captain America punching out Hitler and saving the day from the German army’s scientific branch. More present though was the memory of him and Barney. Just kids running around, taking turns being Red Skull and Cap and wrestling until they were beating the shit out of each other.

“Fuck off, Derrickson,” Clint muttered as he closed his eye. God, he hadn’t expected to have this much heart ache after today. 

The emptiness came for him while Derrickson and Francesco cleaned up. He drifted in and out, sometimes catching one of them looking down at him. His side throbbed gently, nibbling on his skin to remind him that it was still there. 

Hushed whispers drew Clint back into the Quinjet. Compartments were opened, guns were set down. Hands patted on shoulders and Clint’s lips drew thin. Someone stood at the side of the gurney. Clint didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move a muscle.

A light scoff and the person walked towards the cockpit.

“Put him under.”

The pain in Clint’s chest was screaming at him. She was prodding a sharp-nailed finger against him, snapping at him incoherently. He couldn’t hear her but he could see her face. Snarling, dark hair a mess while her eyes were wide. She was screaming and all Clint could do was feel it in his chest.

Unlatching his grip on the gurney, Clint slid off. He stumbled to his feet and before Derrickson or Francesco reached him he snatched the scalpel off the tray and held it out. Rumlow stood in the doorway of the cockpit, smug ass mug grinning at the marksman. The Strike members on board aimed their weapons and waited.

Clint didn’t say anything. He stared at Rumlow, one hand clenching the scalpel while the other held onto the gurney for support. 

“What are you doing, Barton?”

“Having a conversation, Brock.”

“You were never a fan of talking.” Rumlow strode past his soldiers and ended his march only a few steps in front of Barton. “What do you want, Barton?”

Clint adjusted his grip on the scalpel. He looked at Brock with his one good eye for a moment, amidst the tension, and finally let the words out of his throat. “It’s true? You’re Hydra?”

Rumlow's head snapped over to Derrickson. The rage from earlier knotted into his shoulders and he crossed his arms before facing Clint again.“It’s the new order, Barton. Get used to it.”

Brock rushed forward and Clint shoved back against the gurney to fill space between the two as he pressed the scalpel against his own throat. “How long, Brock?”

“Long enough.”

Air pushed through Clint’s nose while his mouth drew into a thin line. 

“You can put that down now or you can go ahead and cut your throat, Barton.” Rumlow studied Clint’s narrowed eye and the sweat trailing down his face. Pale skin, a slight shiver in his body. The thin scraps of energy that Clint had left were probably working to keep him from passing out on his feet.

“What’s the plan, Rumlow? You had shoot to kill orders back there and now you don’t?”

“Either you cut your damn throat or you hand me the damn scalpel, Clint!”

“Why, you got somewhere to be?”

“We both do.”

Clint spotted Rumlow’s foot edging forward. As soon as his eye met with Rumlow’s the two were caught in the briefest clash. Rumlow’s hand wrapped around Clint’s wrist and yanked his hand away from his throat while his legs swept to drop the marksman. Clint angled the scalpel in his hand and dug it into Rumlow’s arm before his back knocked into the ground. Pain erupted everywhere and Clint nearly blacked out from the impact. Pulling the scalpel out of his arm, Rumlow pinned the archer down.

“This is the new order, Clint,” Rumlow hissed in his face. “And order only comes through pain.”

  


* * *

  


The soft noise of a heart monitor lulled Clint back into the world. Slowly, he opened his good eye and adjusted to the light in the room. It wasn’t strong, edging more on dim. The walls were a dull shade of dark aqua.

“Agent Barton,” a woman greeted him with a soft smile as she stepped into the room. She had light brown hair that was cut to her shoulders. Her eyes were a few shades darker. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

She walked over to the side of his bed and examined the monitors. Flipping through the papers on her clipboard, her pen scribbled down small notes. Clint continued to stare at her as she walked to the other side of the mattress.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she fiddled with the IV bag on the other side. When he said nothing she looked over at him. She frowned as she noticed his wide eye. “Agent? Are you alright?”

“Where am I?”

“A secure S.H.I.E.L.D facility.” The nurse smiled and tilted her head in slight bafflement. “Where do you think you are, agent?”

Clint swallowed the thick, dry lump in his throat. All he could do was continue to stare at the nurse in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Reaching out, the nurse squeezed his shoulder. Clint’s eye flicked from her hand to her face. 

“They said you might be a bit out of it when you came to, I can have the doctor come in to explain everything if you want.”

“How long have I been out?” Clint finally asked.

“A couple days at least, you were unconscious when they brought you in.”

“Who brought me in?”

She tilted her head again, that same bafflement passing over her face. “S.H.I.E.L.D. Let me go get the doctor, she’ll be able to explain everything.”

As the woman began to walk away Clint reached for her arm. His fingers loosely clung to her arm. He looked at her, his eye narrowed and his eyebrows drawn close. Frowning, Clint quickly let go of her arm. Clearing his throat, his face softened. “Thanks, I’d appreciate it.”

Nodding, the woman smiled gently. “Of course, Agent Barton.”

Clint watched her walk out of the door and quickly sat up. Aggravating his wounds he couldn’t help but groan from the movement, but he stayed sitting up. His ribs ached but his breathing wasn’t as shallow as before. Glancing down, he noticed that he was in a plain white t-shirt. Throwing the blanket off he noticed he was also wearing loose S.H.I.E.L.D sweatpants.

Lifting up his shirt, Clint studied the bullet wound on his side. Gauze covered it and he lightly pulled it up. The wound was still pretty swollen, the skin still discolored. Francesco had done a good job on the stitching. Feeling his back, Clint twisted to try and see the exit wound. All he could spot was a larger strip of gauze. 

Following the needle in his hand, Clint ran his fingers up the tube and examined the IV bag. It looked normal but there were hundreds of different drugs that could also be feeding into his system right now. Telling him that he was safe. Messing with his perception of reality.

“Agent, already up and ready to go it seems.” 

Clint’s hands froze on the IV bag and his head turned towards the door. 

Standing there, folder in hand, was an older woman. Silver hair pulled back into a tight bun, sharp eyes wth one eyebrow quirked up. What wrinkles were on her face were barely noticeable. She seemed slightly amused with the way she nearly smiled at the sight.

“Care to sit back down?” She offered as she strode towards the bed. Clint slowly let go of the IV bag and focused on the doctor as she pulled a chair close. 

“My name is Dr. Pomidor, I was on-duty when you came in and I’ve been having Ms. Franklin check on you for the past few days. What do you last remember, agent?”

“Rumlow,” Clint said. He watched as Pomidor wrote down something on the side of the notebook before she shuffled through papers. 

“How’s the eye?”

“Feels like I got punched in the face by a Nazi five or six times.”

Pomidor smiled, looking up at the archer before returning to her papers. “The swelling’s down almost completely, I’m hoping by the end of the week you might be able to actually see out of it again. If there’s any difficulties we can talk about seeing a specialist.”

“Great.” Leaning back against the pillows, Clint crossed his arms and watched as Pomidor continued to fill things out. 

“You have questions, Agent Barton?”

“Where’s this facility located?”

“You’re in the medical facility located in Maine. You were flown out here after Rumlow’s Quinjet was intercepted by S.H.I.E.L.D. The Hydra agents, including Rumlow, were taken down. Once they found you on board they flew you here for us to help and monitor your condition.” She looked back up at him. “We don’t get a lot of Avengers here, Agent Barton.”

“Not a fan of medical facilities.”

“As I can see by both your documented and undocumented medical history.” Pomidor lifted up the stack of papers in the folder. “Very impressive.”

“What about the rest of Hydra?”

“What about it?”

“I’ve known Rumlow long time. There had to be dozens, maybe even hundreds, of agents like him that were buried deep in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Dr. Pomidor scoffed and Clint’s face scrunched up in surprise. “Agent, you’ve been out of it for several days. While you’ve been recovering, S.H.I.E.L.D has been ripping the weed out by the roots. This facility has been cleared. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the parts still under investigation.”

“Anything on Rogers or Romanoff?”

“I’m afraid they haven’t popped up while S.H.I.E.L.D’s been digging for traitors. I know Agent Romanoff is your emergency contact, but she also didn’t answer. There was an older number from your earlier records, if you want me to contact them.”

Clint shook his head. “No, that’s alright.”

Standing up, Pomidor pushed the chair back to the wall and cleared her throat. “Now, you need time to heal. The work on both of your bullet wounds didn’t need any revisions, so do your best to just stay off of your side and let your body and the medicine do the work. Could probably see about getting out of bed and on your feet next week. If you’re in pain, if you need anything, Nurse Franklin can help you. I’ll stop by tomorrow to check on that eye of yours.”

Pomidor gently rested her hand on Clint’s shoulder. She looked at his face before focusing on his eyes. “Welcome back, agent.”

Clint cleared his throat and nodded, pulling his eyes away. “Thank you, doctor.”

Her heels struck against the tile until the sound disappeared with the shut door. For a moment, Clint aimlessly glanced from the medical equipment to the walls. It was small and private. Sighing, Clint rubbed a hand down his face before eyeing the IV warily.

It smelled like bullshit. Felt like bullshit. He’s still caught in that moment, the scalpel in his hand and Rumlow’s face close to his. He’s known that bastard since his early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. And it was all bullshit. Francesco. Derrickson. Every goddamn Strike member on that Quinjet. He’d served with enough of them plenty of times. 

And they were all ready to put a bullet in him. 

Sinking further down into the bed, Clint chewed on his bottom lip. He studied the room again, this time taking the effort to sweep over every inch with his one good eye, his left eye fighting to open up. He’d have a better idea of cameras when he could get on his feet, but for now it seemed clear.

One way in through the door. Probably locked on the outside.

Clint groaned as he sunk further into the bed. He doubted he could put any significant weight on his leg right now. The bullet wound on his right side was deep which made it a liability. He’d had enough death-scares to know that too much aggravation or reopening the bastard would not end well for him.

One last groan and Clint dropped his head onto the pillows. Hydra pillows. He curled under the blanket and huffed. As soon as he could put any weight on his leg and get any bearings on the layout of the building he could come up with a plan.

He was by no means safe. Not trapped in the belly of the beast. But they hadn’t chained him up in some weird torture dungeon. Hadn’t killed him in the days he was out of it. There were plans in place that Clint couldn’t make out with his one good eye.

He swallowed his nerves and closed his eye, letting his body guide him to the sleep he would need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find a link to the song used for the chapter title (Disloyal Order of the Water Buffaloes by Fall Out Boy)[ here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BelMpQChslU)


	5. Closing My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, oh dearest readers, I don't even know how long it has been to be honest. But what better way to spend the day then going through your files and read through some stuff? After doing so, I found what I needed to pick this back up and add to it. I cannot promise consistency, but I will do my best to continue what I currently have. 
> 
> Thank you to those who have stuck around, and those who are finding this for the first time!

_Barney grinned at him, and Clint knew well enough that there was nothing but trouble in those gap teeth of his._

_They were running, Barney holding a bag in his hand and Clint can’t even remember what’s inside of it. But his heart was racing and they’re hollering as they run through the field. Clint turned around and saw the old man running after them, yelling all sorts of shit but Clint can’t hear him._

_Then it was Rumlow. Barney’s gone, the old man’s gone, and Rumlow was barreling towards him._

_Clint snarled and turned on his foot, ready to crash into Rumlow until a gunshot cracked through the air. Clint fell to the ground as blood poured from his side._

_Rumlow towered over him, smoking gun in hand and Barney’s grin plastered on his face._

_“Order only comes through pain, Barton.”_

“Bastard,” Clint muttered.

“My parents were married, thank you very much.”

His right eye immediately opened while his left eyelid cracked open and fluttered at the newfound mobility. He spotted Dr. Pomidor sitting in the chair, her attention on the papers she was filling out. 

“Sorry,” Clint mumbled as he sat up more.

“Bad dream, agent?”  
Clint hummed despondently while he flexed his fingers. Thankfully his hands were in good condition, the knuckles still scraped but healing well. The painkillers helped dull the sharp throb in his side but his leg fought against the drugs. Just slowly rolling his foot caused Clint to wince.

“The ballistic trauma to the muscles in your lower leg was severe, Clint. Not to mention your side. Don’t push yourself.”

“Noted, doc.”

Closing the folder and capping her pen, Pomidor set her papers down and rested her hands in the pockets of her coat. “Looks like you finally got that eye open.”

“You’re a psychic.” Clint smiled slightly.

“I’m a professional,” she corrected as she pulled out a flashlight and leaned in closer. “Now look straight ahead.”

Quickly shining the light through both eyes, Pomidor nodded to herself and pocketed the flashlight. She pointed her finger in front of his face. “Follow my finger.”

Clint watched the digit move down, then left, then up, then right, then left, then down. Standing straighter Pomidor nodded again. “Alright. I’m gonna call in that specialist.”

“I look that bad?”

Pomidor shrugged. “Never hurts to double check. Especially in your line of work, Agent Barton.”  
Clint cleared his throat and nodded, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “Do you think I could get a glass of water?”

“I’ll have Franklin bring you a glass.” Pomidor picked up her folder from the seat of the chair. “She should also have something to eat for you too.”

The doctor left the room and Clint was alone.

He scratched again at his jaw, glowering at the emptiness around him. Hospitals were not his strong suit. Two conscious days in and he was already itching to get out. 

Lying in the bed, Clint felt his lungs expanding and contracting, his ribs occasionally complaining. He stared at the door in front of him. All he really needed is to get out of that door. It’s out that door, and then the next, maybe a third, even. He has no idea. How many doors are in hospitals? 

Clint cautiously wiggled his toes on his right foot, his calf growling at him. Pain sniggered somewhere in the back of his head. Clint had worked with worse. 

The door opened and Clint was yanked out of his head. Nurse Franklin walked in, tray and glass in hand, and quickly shut the door with her foot before Clint could glimpse past it.

“The swelling’s really down on your head,” she mentioned as she set the tray down. “Before you eat I’m gonna have to change your dressings.” 

She offered the glass of water. “I’ll need to go get everything so you can go ahead and have that. I’ll be right back.” 

She was out the door as swiftly as she had entered. Clint frowned at the glass of water, indecision bubbling in his chest. 

“You asked for it, you dummy,” Clint muttered before finally taking a small sip. It tasted about the same as tap water, which did nothing to soothe the unease trapped in Clint’s chest. 

Franklin stormed back into the room, arms filled with gauze and medicine. “You can take your shirt off and lay on your left side.”

Clint nodded and set the glass down on the small table attached to the bed. He grit his teeth as he pulled the shirt up from the hem, his side aching from the movement. Cotton grazed over the small scrapes and cuts that were still healing on his body, briefly aggravating each one.

He set the shirt down on the left side of the bed and stretched out onto his side. Cool hands peeled off the old dressing and Clint curled his toes.

“How long have you worked at S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“It’ll be six years soon.”

“Always lived in Nevada or were you transferred here?”

“Maine,” Franklin corrected. She gently touched around the stitching, studying the wound before she began redressing the entry wound. “And I worked two years at the North Dakota facility before I was transferred.”

“Didn’t wanna go into public hospitals?”

“Stories are a bit more interesting here,” Franklin said. Peeling back the exit wound’s dressing, she quickly checked the sutures and covered the wound with a new dressing. “Alright, leg next and then we’re done.”

Grabbing his shirt, Clint slowly rolled onto his back and sat up. He threw the shirt on and watched this time as she rolled up his pant leg. Gauze was wrapped around at least three inches of his lower leg. She unravelled it and Clint grimaced at the angry mess of red, swollen skin and black stitching on both sides of the muscle.

“Could’ve been worse,” she mentioned as she worked.

“I get that a lot,” Clint replied. “Are crutches out of the question?”

“Depends.” The nurse picked up a waste bin and began throwing away the old dressings, “Already itching to get back on your feet?”

“Never did well with hospitals.”

“I can talk to Pomidor about it. Eat, rest. We can get you back into condition, agent.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Clint reaffirmed. “Thank you.”

Franklin smiled and left.

Pulling the attached table closer, Clint took another sip of water. On the tray was a sandwich, an apple, and some jello. It jiggled as Clint prodded it tentatively with the plastic spoon provided. Again, the unease nestled into his chest on instinct but Clint fought past it. He had already drank the water.

An empty tray and an empty glass sat on the table, and Clint was once again left to stare at the door. The heart monitor beeped softly and Clint found his eyes beginning to droop. A full stomach and the quiet noise of the machines around Clint carried him away.

* * *

_Smoke was everywhere. Clint didn’t know where it was coming from, filling the small space he was inside of. It poured into his lungs through his mouth and nose, drowning his body. Clint fell to his knees, coughing. Dropping onto his stomach, the floor burned with a noticeable heat._

_Straining, Clint tried to peer through the billowing clouds of smoke, looking for a way out._  
_A hand broke through the floor in front of him, fingers outstretched and flailing. Clint paled at the sight of it. He dragged himself towards it, the floor like burning coals raking against his skin. Reaching, his hand closed in on the other._

_His fingertips grazed the stranger’s, and suddenly the hand was forcefully pulled back under. Clint stared at the vacant space, his insides burning as the smoke in his lungs rid the little air left in his body._

“Agent Barton.”

Clint blinked. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light. His vision was still a bit bleary, as if the smoke had continued to sting his eyes, but he recognized enough of the person beside him to realize it was Franklin.

“How long was I out?”

“A while. Which is good. The more rest you get the more time your body has to heal.”

She was checking the monitor and the IV drip, scribbling something down on the clipboard in her hand.

Rubbing at his one good eye, Clint’s hands pressed against the mattress as he tried to sit upright.  
“It’s late, you don’t have to be up right now,” Franklin said as she gently rested her hand on his shoulder, nudging him back to lay down. “You just sounded like you were having a bad dream.”

“Was I?” Clint looked up at her, allowing her to push him back into laying down. “Seems to be happening more often these days.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Franklin asked, standing over him, watching carefully.

Clint shook his head. “No, it’s nothing. I think my head’s still trying to wrap around everything that happened.”

“You’re not alone in that.” Franklin sunk into the chair behind her, hands resting on her lap. “This facility was cleared, but only after we lost three of our own. What we thought were our own.”

“You still trust everyone?”

“Everyone else’s lives depend on our coherence. We work like a machine,” Franklin said. “If we don’t trust the autonomy we have with each other, it could endanger the people we work to save.”

Clint nodded. “I get that.”

Franklin’s head tilted, she gave a warm smile. “With Agent Romanoff?”

“Trust is important,” Clint said. “Not just with one person.”

“Will you be willing to trust S.H.I.E.L.D after all of this?” 

“You did,” Clint said. “Are you okay with that?”

“I am,” Franklin said. “Because I know what I’m working for, working for S.H.I.E.L.D, is making the world a better place. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Clint said, rubbing at his eye again. “I think I’d rather just go back to bed.”

A small laugh left Franklin. “Then I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Standing back up, she held the clipboard underneath her arm and gave one last squeeze to Clint’s shoulder. “Thank you for talking to me. I promise the bad dreams won’t last.”

“Nothing ever does,” Clint said with a smile.

Once she exited the room, Clint’s smile fell. He glanced around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck still standing tall from the dream. There hadn’t been a face to that person’s hand but watching them slip away broke Clint’s heart all the same. 

Curling his toes, Clint cringed at the pain from his leg. Fists formed beneath the blankets as Clint glowered at the door. 

There was something in Clint’s chest that ached painfully. Maybe it was the betrayal, maybe it was just a cracked rib, either way he didn’t want to spend the time to think about it. To say he was growing antsy was an understatement. He needed to move, needed to go.

A blue light flashed on the heart monitor to his right and Clint jerked quickly to his left without thinking. When he realized what it was, he had to hold back a groan. He sank further down the bed, accepting the small snippets of pain from his body from the movement. He didn’t care. 

Clint’s thoughts were digging through everything. Dreams and memories bouncing around in his head. The thought of Natasha surfaced before submerging back into the mess of his mind. It all left a bad taste in Clint’s mouth. Awful, that’s what it was. Clint felt awful. 

He didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to have his subconscious construct anymore weird, bad dreams. His eyes went to the ceiling, drilling holes into the white paint. Maybe he could do this all night, stare at dried paint for hours. 

Clint pushed his head back, trying to sink deeper into the stiff hospital pillows. He sniffed, fighting past the small lump in his throat. He felt like a mess. Hell, he was a mess. 

His eyes flicked away from the floor and towards the IV. Clint studied it before taking a deep breath. Frayed nerves began to settle, and he took another breath. Deep inhale, slow exhale. Finally, Clint closed his eyes. 

He wasn’t going to lose it. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Closing My Eyes by Fleetwood Mac](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJKpS94KdHA)
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> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment down below.


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